


Stay (far away, so close)

by myrish_lace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arguing, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jon Snow is King in the North, Sad Ending, Season 7 Spoilers, Short One Shot, Spoilers, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 21:23:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11563599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrish_lace/pseuds/myrish_lace
Summary: Jon Snow tells Sansa he's leaving Winterfell, and gets angry when she begs him to stay. Her reaction is not what he expected, and he has a devastating revelation. Spoilers through the second episode of Season 7.





	Stay (far away, so close)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [subjunctivemood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/subjunctivemood/gifts).



> Based on a first sentence tumblr prompt. Title from U2's song of the same name.
> 
> Request: I am trying to stay away from Game of Thrones spoilers, and all I know is that Jon's leaving Winterfell in the next episode. Please, no spoilers in the comments! ♡

“You have no right to say that to me!”

 _Stay_ , she’d begged, and he’d snapped at her. High up on Winterfell’s walls, where he’d taken her to break the news that he was leaving.

He’d shouted at her. She’d recoiled, hiding behind her red hair.  All his frustration, pent-up anger and shame had come pouring out in that one sentence.

How she got under his skin. How he wanted to push her away, so she couldn’t challenge him, or the fragile hold he had on the North and his men.

How he wanted to pull her close and kiss her, fiercely, desperately, giving in to the searing heat that burned inside him each time she touched his skin. How he ached to know if she felt it too.

Her blue eyes had been soft, so soft when she asked. Just as they were yesterday, when she’d implored him to listen to her.

No woman had ever looked at him that way before. Her gaze wasn’t like Ygritte’s grating smirk or Catelyn Stark’s haughty anger. He’d drowned entirely in her eyes, speechless.

He’d spoken now. He’d roared in anger. His breath clouded the air in front of him.

Sansa bent her head. He could sense her gathering her strength, pulling away from him even though she hadn’t moved.

The wind blew by them on the ramparts, where he’d kissed her forehead, trying to seal them together.

Where, today, they were tearing themselves apart.

When she looked up again he saw someone cold, and regal. Someone ready to be done with him. Her eyes were like ice. Her voice was clipped and low, nothing like her passionate plea a moment ago.

“You’re right. Forgive me, Your Grace.” 

His heart cracked at the title. He wanted to be Jon to her, just Jon, only Jon.

But hadn’t he reminded her he was King now, like a boy playing with his toys?

She clasped her hands in front of her. “It’s not proper for me to ask you for protection. I wish you well on your journey.” She was staring him down. He shrank under her glare.

Then she curtsied, perfectly, perfunctory, as she would have done for anyone of higher rank.  _You are nothing but a nameless lord to me_. He felt lower than if she’d screamed and cried and tried to keep him.

Her show of respect was worse than her voicing ringing out in dissent in the Great Hall. Because she’d put whatever they’d had behind her.  

_And what could they have been, as brother and sister?_

She was in her tower, and she held the lock and key.

He tried. He reached for her. “Sansa, please, wait, I didn’t-”

She stayed where she was, implacable. He hadn’t known how far away she could go. How fast she could leave him, without taking a step.

And then it came crashing down on him. Of course she could. Of course. This control, this strategic retreat, was how she’d survived King’s Landing. How she’d outlasted Ramsay Bolton. How she’d dealt with Littlefinger without being soiled by him. Her strength was made of iron, of steel, and he needed it. He needed her. By his side.

“Good night, Your Grace,” she said, composed, remote. All of the sweetness that had been between them - and there  _had_ been sweetness, entwined with tension and bickering but  _there_ , warm and shining - was gone. Wiped out.

She swept away, her gray cloak trailing behind her, every inch a queen. He craved her. He yearned for her. He missed her. The relentless snow filled the imprints of her boots as he watched.

He whispered his own plea to the cold night air.

“I love you. I’m  _in_ love with you. Help me, Sansa, please. I’m so sorry. I can’t do this alone.”

But it was far, far too late. She’d vanished, and she wasn’t coming back.


End file.
